Alternatives
by Little Obsessions
Summary: "She hadn't realised, when welcoming her sons and daughters into her heart as much as she would have with any child she had made, it would hurt just as badly when she had to watch them go." An exploration of different moments of motherhood for the matriarch. In canon and character. A series of stand-alone moments.
1. A Loss

_None of the characters herein belong to me and everything is the intellectual property of Stephenie Meyer. I love writing about these 2 characters. _

* * *

**2006**

The sun was resting low across the horizon, painting Forks in a deep amber glow, decorating the morning with a deliciously blood-coloured hue. She traced her fingers across the velvet drapes, impressed that after 80 years they still looked new as they hung perfectly at either end of the window. This kind of quality, after years of looking for things that lasted, appealed to her.

She heard footsteps, then the soft closing of the door and the weight of a briefcase being perched upon the phone table. The fresh scent of the New England Journal of Medicine, to which her husband had contributed this month, blended through the old and worn leather. She must have been distracted, because normally she heard the purr of his engine before she heard his footsteps. Of course, if she was being fully honest with herself, she was distracted.

Below her, in the garden, the open space was being prepared for the wedding. The boughs of weeping willows were lush and thick, sweeping the ground with their graceful tentacles. If she had been so inclined, she might have sketched the silence of the world before her, but today she felt uninspired. The garden looked forlorn and lonely and it made it hear heart heavy. Later in the morning and over the next few days it would be very busy so she knew she had to take this time for herself. Yet when she was alone, they very thought of it all became painful and she wanted desperately to be distracted.

She turned from the window, glad that his shift was over and that he was in their home again. Her logic very much told her that she was able to protect herself, that her body was made entirely for survival, yet his being away made her feel vulnerable. She was afraid in those moments of loneliness, when he was being unavoidably and infinitely kind to all the humans he came into contact with but was, by virtue of that, separate from her.

He was her protector, as much as she did not require it.

She padded from their bedroom, her feet reaching the bottom of the stairs just as he emerged from the closet in which all of their coats hung. He had yet to remove his scarf and she took it upon herself to do it for him, savouring the feel of the rich wool against her fingers.

She had found the smell, the fine perfume of human blood, tainted by medicines and the humming electricity of medical equipment, irresistible at first. It was always stronger if he had been operating and on those occasions it was underlined with the tangy, sterile smell of surgical metal. He had not brought his lab coats home until they had been married for 20 years but even at that, the scent wove itself into the fabric of his expensive shirts and clung to the pressed lines of his trousers. It burned the back of her throat, an acidic tang that she wanted to claw at.

"Good morning, my dear," he caught his hand in his and in the privacy of the morning, when all the children were locked away or dreaming through the night hours, he stole this opportunity divest a kiss on her upturned wrist, just where her pulse should have been. If it had been there, it would have raced against the softness of his lips.

It had the ability to weaken her with a futility that was still new, still fresh. The gentle strength which was carried on his lips, which empowered his healing hands, that laced his every thought and promise and idea, was strong enough to render her helpless.

She pressed herself to him, drank him in as he murmured softly against her ear. There were no tangible, cogent words – instead they were soft, gentle noises of comfort and reassurance.

"Forgive me but I missed you tonight," she whispered.

"Hush, there is little to forgive," he assured, watching as she folded his scarf between her fingers deftly, leaving it on the sideboard, "I am flattered that, after nearly a century of marriage, you still desire me so entirely."

"Yes, Carlisle, it is debilitating," she agreed, a smile of humour turning the corners of her mouth.

He laughed a little then,a gentle chuckle that he reserved plainly for her, and she could feel him coming back to her, leaving the hospital and the humans behind and returning to her heart.

He motioned with a soft bow of his head to the back garden, "How are the plans developing?"

"They are going well," she answered, "And Bella left just after you departed for work. Her mother arrives this morning so she is, understandably, excited."

"Ah, I see. That _is _understandable," he agreed, taking her hand in his.

While they did not eat and while they did not sleep, they had fallen into a routine which they both relished anyway because of its very simplicity. They needed routine as individuals, and as a couple it allowed them to simulate a semblance of humanity that otherwise might have driven them wild.

When Carlisle had departed the evening before, she settled into the routine of the wife who's husband worked night shifts on rotation every six months. She hated these six months more than anything else in her eternity because the nights just seemed so much longer. She read for a while, sitting in her seat by the fire in his library, then changed into bed clothes and, as always in his absence, climbed into his side of the bed and relished in the warm scent of leather and vanilla and gold that bled from there.

Then she allowed herself to float into her dreaming, not entirely awake but also unable to fully fall into the arms of elusive sleep. How she envied the mortals their precious sleep. Entirely still and quiet she lay on her side, thinking through every memory she possessed; most of them revolving around their children or the doctor. Recently her dreams had been following the same relentless pattern, the same filmic interpretation of Edward's up and coming wedding - not only his wedding but his marriage and the future he had with Isabella.

She did not fear it would not work well for them but as a mother, despite the lack of biological ties, she was anxious that it should be as beautiful for Edward and Bella as the other marriages her son was surrounded by.

Thus, this daydreaming had become a routine too – one she wished to share with her husband. But there was something else in her musings that made it feel more like longing and that emotion embarrassed her. She could not, would not, share that with Carlisle.

They made their way, as always, through the sitting room and out onto the porch where there were two seats. Here, in the morning, they would exchange the ordinary conversations that were the norm in every marriage. He would explain how work had unfolded, if he didn't feel he should keep it to his heart, and she would encourage him to share it as if it really mattered to her. Because, unequivocally, it did.

She examined his eyes in the soft hue of the morning and realised the tell-tale shade of onyx was far more evident than it normally was. Her husband was hungry, he was thirsty and she couldn't recall the last time he had fed.

"Carlisle," she whispered, "When last did you hunt?"

He rubbed his pale fingers over his brow, "3 weeks ago."

"Darling," she struggled to keep her concern from her voice, "You need to feed."

He waved his hand lightly, smiling softly and it put her immediately at ease. Carlisle knew his limits intimately, just as much as he knew everyone else's around him, and he would not push himself unless he could really tolerate it.

"I agree," he said gently, "But I would rather like my mate to join me."

He rarely referred to her as his mate and when he did, his implication was not missed. It was a quirk in their relationship that was known only to them. Perhaps to Edward, she thought wryly, since they could not prevent him knowing everything despite trying rather furiously. There were undertones there that implied a feral attitude; a side of himself Carlisle was more than reluctant to indulge. She smiled shyly , though not without intent.

"Yes, yes my love," she whispered, "But I rather like this night gown and I would hate to snag it on a loose branch. You know how it would upset Alice. Will you let me change?"

He nodded his consent and sat back in his chair, breathing in the world around him. She paused to admire him for a moment, in the giddy way that the young girl had as the doctor tended to her leg. The line of his jaw was fine and solid as he rested, his lips pressed together in silent prayer, his lengthy eye lashes flickering on his cheeks.

"Esme," he finally muttered, a smile of extreme shyness whispering across the bottom of his face, "Please stop my dear, and go and change into something more fit for hunting."

She laughed a little and made her way back inside.

"I feel chastened for admiring my husband," she revealed, tying her hair back from her face with a soft pink ribbon as they stood at the edge of the wood. The forest rustled with life, beckoning them forward with a magnetic pull that still, till this day, frightened her. She was now more appropriately dressed and her husband had changed too, though Carlisle struggled to dress appropriately to look like a human. He owned only pressed dress trousers and soft cashmere sweaters and richly made shirts. He had failed to notice, even in his incredible cleverness, that men his age did not dress like that.

He looked at her seriously, then a look of embarrassment rested across his brow, "Oh but Esme it's not that I do not enjoy it, simply that I cannot cope with such open...admiration. At least, not from the one woman I want to admire me."

"Ah, the age old problem of vampiric beauty," she laughed, taking off before her husband could realise he was about to be left behind.

They ran at an exhilarating pace, pleased to have escaped the confines of their home and the immediacy of the wedding. In the initial days of their courting they had done this more but as they had relaxed into a routine, and into the parenthood which had become central to their life, they did not hunt together often. His shifts, and lack of appetite, did not call for it and she preferred to hunt alone when everyone was occupied.

There was a familiarity in their hunt though, a divine understanding of the other's habits and needs. A divine understanding of how difficult they both found it.

Before long they picked up the scent of a herd of deer and for the first time that morning she witnessed how truly thirsty her husband was. He took off after them, usually the slowest of the entire coven, and was a blur of speed as he did so. He was quick to pounce on the largest deer in the herd, brinigng the gentle animal to the ground with a deafening thud as the others ran from their hunters. Quickly, with overflowing compassion, he snapped the animal's neck. The murder was both delicate and horrid and it still managed to turn her stomach slightly; seeing her gentle husband made aggressive by his nature as the the silence of the woods was ruined by the snap.

"Please," he ran his hand across the deer's neck as it lay motionless, the warmth of blood radiating from it, "My dear."

He beckoned her forward but she remained standing against a tree and shook her head. The animal was losing its warmth quickly and the blood was cooling down, losing its already weak appeal by the second.

"You're more thirsty than I am," she answered, "I will wait on you."

"Together," he answered and in the golden depth of his eyes she could see something other than hunger; she could read guilt. Carlisle hated to do this alone but he wanted to because, just as she did, he felt humiliated.

Perhaps this was why they no longer hunted together as they once had. As Esme's thirst had dissipated and grown bearable she had suddenly realised that even this act was barbaric. And for everything he had already witnessed, in those first days where she lacked control and devoured any animal with which she was presented, she was mortified.

In the past, when they had accompanied each other on hunts, she allowed him to commit the kill and beckon her forward as he just did, in an act of subjugation that both embarrassed and relieved her. Carlisle was a gentleman and it was an understanding which passed between them silently; he committed the kill for her because she was too ashamed to do it herself and he did it for her because he loved her, not because he liked committing the act. She knew too, from the conversations they had in the depth of the night as they lay wrapped in each other's arms, that he found the entire process unseemly. He had confessed this much to her, though there were secrets Carlisle would always keep.

So it had worn away after a while, the entire charade of actively hunting together. Even when they hunted at the same time, they went entirely different ways in the forest. Today though his thirst and her desire to be with him had overridden the status quo and left them at an awkward juncture.

She kneeled beside him on the floor of the forest, the deep undergrowth padding their knees as they perched side by side. The heat radiated from the animal before them and being this near it at least smelled palatable. The venom sprang onto the surface of her tongue and coated the inside of her cheeks. She could smell Carlisle's too; an undertone of sugary tang that appealed to her, just catching the breeze as he opened his mouth in preparation to drink.

She watched as he dipped his head to the lower portion of the neck, his eyes remaining on her face as he did so. She smiled reassuringly and dipped her head too.

She had hunted a few days before, when he had still been working an early shift at the hospital, and was not as thirsty as she may have been had she abstained as long as her husband had.

Faces a few inches apart, they feasted in silence, the only noise the contracting of the animal's arteries and veins as their mouths pulled at the blood.

At first she had hated the smell and loved it at the same time. She had found the mess appalling and attractive. Found her husband feeding both erotic and horrifying simultaneously. It was a mess of desires and needs, contradictions and undeniable urges.

She had learned over time how to feed without spilling a drop, so the only clue as to her dietary predilections was the tiny trickle of blood at the corners of her mouth and the slightly pink staining on her lips and the pads of her fingers. The mess she had conquered but the contradictory feelings of pleasure and disgust still battled within her.

She turned her eyes to the side, her mouth still latched to the soft pelt and her teeth embedded in the artery, and watched as he fed. The soft hum in the back of his throat, the noise of relief and pleasure, was reflect in the serenity of his face. His jaw was relaxed, his brow was smooth, his eyes had fallen closed. She understood why he hated to be seen like this but despite that it was so...erotic to witness. There was something vital and full and powerful about seeing him reduced to his natural instincts and yet, something disconcerting too.

He hated to find relief and peace and calm within this vile act. She could see it in the set of his shoulders and the way his gullet contracted in need and in disgust.

As if he knew what she was thinking he reached blindly for her her hand, his fingers wrapping around hers, gripping with intensity that conveyed a need to be reassured. She squeezed in return.

The carcass soon seemed smaller without its life blood and she watched as her husband ran his hand over the belly of the beast, almost consolingly, as he completed his task. The shame that curled his mouth down was unmistakable but he would never voice it.

He sat back on his knees, his hand still wrapped over hers,"I have quite sated my thirst."

Of course they both knew that was not true because their thirst couldn't really be sated, it could only be dulled to a sore itch in the back of their larynx.

There was no need to verbalise their embarrassment or weakness, so they simply smiled sadly at each other and tired, in vain, to forget what they were. Most of the time, she thought to herself, they managed it.

He stood, helping her to her feet as he did so, and proceeded to brush the dry leaves and twigs from his trousers. He rubbed the pads of his forefinger and thumb together, blending the blood into his skin.

"Let's go home," she whispered, "And lie down side by side...and you can tell me about your day."

He smiled consolingly and took her hand, maintaining a slower pace as they picked their way through the forest. She could tell he was preoccupied and, much like her, she knew his recent preoccupation revolved around the impending nuptials.

"Will you make sure they all feed?"

She looked at him, puzzled, then understood what he meant.

"Of course darling," she laced her arm with his, "They are responsible enough-"

"I do know Esme," he interrupted, though not angrily, "It is simply that they shall be surrounded by humans and they struggle. Jasper in particular..."

"They would never ruin Edward and Bella's day," she said, and her tone was almost one of admonishment.

"No, not intentionally," he whispered, "But we have to be wary."

She nodded her head in agreement, watching as he trailed his hand along the rough bark of the trees.

"Yes," she conceded, "We do. I shall discuss it with them."

"Thank you," he smiled, "It always seems so much more palatable coming from you. They do not like to be told by father."

She laughed, "Carlisle, they respect you too much. They despise you seeing their weakness and that is why they are so desperate to appear faultless."

It was very true – admonishment from Carlisle was far more embarrassing than any sort of chastisement from her. They knew that they could never disappoint either of them, of course, but to compete with their father's goodness was almost impossible. Their mother however understood their weaknesses far more. In light of this Carlisle looked to her to remind them of their manners and behaviour and saw himself as their guide and leader. It was a role into which she fell naturally anyway, the mother who made them fit for polite society.

"I know," he agreed, "What time does Bella's mother arrive?"

"She will be in Forks already," she answered, her mind recalling Renee's face, "Her husband is coming too."

They cleared the forest that led seamlessly back into their garden and this time, it was awash with life suggesting to them both that they had been gone longer than they thought. Their sons were felling trees and carving them into make-shift benches, designed by her, within minutes. She had been particularly proud of this design and had been encouraged by Alice's excitement and Bella's quiet pleasure to turn it into a reality. It was going to be beautiful.

Bella and Edward were sitting on a far away bench, manually tying the gorgeous green foliage together for the centre of the tables. For humans, these kind of tasks were boring and only born out of a necessity to save money. For vampires, it was something new and different to do in a life with no sleep. Edward appeared to be deriving great pleasure from something so mundane.

Her husband, as if able to read her thoughts, squeezed her hand. He had read her sadness, her wistful wish for more, as she watched their first son take this massive step as if it were slow motion.

That was something else they hadn't verbalized either – their sadness at seeing him go.

"Carlisle, Esme," Edward stood up, beckoning them forward, "What do you think?"

"Magnificent," she motioned around her.

"Bella, how was your mother's flight?" Carlisle sat beside them, taking up some of the foliage and tying it neatly.

She watched his hands, the precision of a surgeon dancing softly across his fingers, as he tied and pulled and knotted the twine. She loved his hands for everything they had given her. The press against her jaw as his teeth sunk into her neck all those years ago, the soft touch of his fingers across her brow when she was worried, the way in which he held her hand in his. They were reassuring hands, hand that led a family and saved lives, mediated fights and dragged a pen furiously across years and years of paper. They were, in short, miraculous hands.

"Fine," the girl murmured, attention focussed on the task like someone who wished to avoid the conversation in which they were engaged entirely.

Edward smirked, "Bella's mother wanted to meet you. Bella was embarrassed."

Esme recognised that look of agony which passed across the beautiful girl's face. She knew the dynamic of shyness, of not fitting in, and felt it acutely. Bella wasn't afraid of her mother being torn to pieces by the Cullen family. No, she was afraid they would think badly of Renee and her eccentricity.

"I told her," Edward continued teasingly as Bella's face coloured considerably, "That none of you would want to eat Renee anyway."

Carlisle laughed at this but remained silent, feigning great concentration with his task. She sat beside her husband, directly across from Bella.

"I think it's a lovely idea," she said softly, taking Bella's hands from their distraction, "It was always tradition for the mothers of the couple to have tea. Was it not, Edward?"

"Yes," he agreed non-committally.

"You should invite her for tea today," Carlisle murmured and she was surprised by his encouragement.

For all Carlisle worked with humans from day to day, and he expected his family to be around them, he was not exactly willing to invite them into his home on the spur of the moment. He didn't like to put them in danger, simply, and Bella coming around as often as she did was an entirely alien experience for them all.

"No really," Bella whispered, "You don't have to. I -"

"Esme wants to," Edward interrupted, "She's already planned it in her head. She's chosen her china and linens. It will be fun, she thinks, to lay out a table like she used to."

Esme frowned at Edward and Carlisle, who was chuckling at his son's forwardness and abuse of his special gift. She would have chastised him but the light-hearted tone did not permit it.

"Yes," she bristled, "I rather am. Tea went out of fashion in the fifties..."

"Tea went out of fashion when you stopped needing to drink it, Esme," Edward smiled, looking to Rosalie and Alice as they stopped at the edge of the bench.

She swatted his arm at his half-hearted compliment.

"Can we come?" Rosalie asked, the idea of such a civil afternoon appealing to everything that Rosalie missed.

Bella simply groaned, realising that the decision had already been made without her consent. Renee would be coming for tea and there was little she could do about it.

"No," Alice shook her head, "We're not going to be there. Esme thinks it's a matter of propriety."

Esme smiled at Rosalie, who had masked her disappointment well.

"It's settled then," Carlisle said softly, "Your mother should come for tea."

She was surprised by his encouragement and resisted her desire to share a look with him that conveyed her shock. He continued to tie the foliage together and didn't look at her either. His eyes had returned to the brightest gold, making his face seem calmer than it had been before they fed. They were trained on the task at hand and she denied her curiosity to ask him why he was so keen to have Renee come for tea. She knew he would have a reason and she didn't always need to know.

00000

Renee was dressed in a long, flowing dress that reminded her of the lost fashions of the 70s that she had never quite embraced but had skirted around the edges of. She was petite, yes, but the lingering curves and softness of her pregnancy had stayed with her when she had been frozen in time, leaving her a body that was not suited to lithe long dresses and loose cuts. Carlisle, in the closed confines of their bedroom, had confessed to her that he loved the softness of her body in a way that embarrassed him. She had never felt more desired.

Renee, she could tell, was almost as nervous about this meeting as she was. The woman was fidgeting with the bracelet made of sea shells around her wrist, fiddling with the tie that pulled it together. At the bottom of the stairs, they embraced rather awkwardly. She smelled like sand and heat and the south. Her intake of breath when she realised the chill of Esme's skin was quickly replaced with a breathy laugh.

"Sorry," she smiled, "I can never get used to how cold Forks is. Who would want to stay here?"

"I agree," she motioned to the stairs and they climbed leisurely. The house was quiet; Carlisle having retreated to his study to complete some paperwork and everyone else feigning normality at the cinema in Port Angeles.

"My husband enjoys the hospital though," she continued smoothly, rather enjoying the pretence of the housewife, "And we like to take the children outdoors as much as possible."

Telling half-truths was one of the most refreshing things for her. Feigning humanity even more so.

"Yeah," Renee followed her seamlessly, though Esme could see she wanted to linger to look at the different artwork around the house, " Charlie says-"

She stopped mid-sentence and Esme smiled kindly, realising why she had stalled. It appeared rather rude to be discussing someone else's family and Renee was evidently annoyed at herself for such carelessness.

"What does Charlie say?"

She motioned to the seat at the other side of the wrought iron table on the terrace, on which she had set the china that Edward had made fun of and a tall cake stand of little finger sandwiches and pastries. It had felt really rather nice to fake humanity; to do something from her life before. Carlisle had quietly helped her, his smile alternating from one of amusement to one of sadness as they hankered for a civility that they could never have.

She had already planned how to falsify her eating and as she reached for the tea strainer and placed it over her cup, she felt far more human than she had in a long time. It washed away the hunt of that morning, remaining in her only internally, ridding her of the feeling guilt that had been with her since the real feast that morning.

"He says that your husband is one of the best doctors in the country and Forks is lucky to have him," Renee smiled.

"He is very good, I hear," she smiled in agreement, "Though I rarely see him at work."

Renee motioned to the garden below them, the foundations of the wedding taking shape before them, "It's all coming along."

Esme detected the sadness in her voice, the desire to have been more involved in her one and only child's big day.

"I am sure you would have liked to be more involved," Esme nodded, "But we still have so much to do and you are essential to that."

"Actually you seem to have quite a handle on this."

"Oh, I have quite a lot of experience," Esme laughed, falsely reaching for a macaroon that was perched on one of the upper tiers, "But my daughters are even more in love with planning parties."

"They are?"

"Mhmm," she agreed, "I enjoy organising things though."

"I'm the complete opposite," Renee filled the silence, "Are your family out?"

"Carlisle is in his study and the rest of the children are joining Bella and Edward at the cinema," she informed.

There was a delicate silence, one that was heavy with the shared experience of bitter-sweet feelings.

"I cannot believe that Edward is getting married," she whispered finally.

The relief on Renee's face was almost tangible, touchable in its sincerity.

"No, I know," her guest shook her head, misinterpreting her words, "I was worried at first because they are so young but now I've seen them together I just..."

"Carlisle and I worried about their age too," she lied flawlessly, not because she was devious but because she wanted Renee to be at peace, "But we wholeheartedly believe they are right for each other. Edward, you see, is my first son, and I have found it difficult to let go."

Her honesty came as a surprise to her, even though she had been suppressing the feeling of loss for a few weeks now.

"Oh?"

Human curiosity was something Esme could remember feeling, but it was blurry around the edges of her memory. She found it fascinating though to watch humans be actively curious about everything around them particularly the people they came into contact with. She knew the women and parents at the high schools and hospitals in which members of her family were involved found her to be an anomaly. On those rare occasions on which she visited her husband at work, the nurses didn't question her beauty but instead her appeal to him specifically. She was so shy, so quiet and unable to give him the family he deserved in their opinion. The mothers at school envied and pitied her at the same time. They envied her clever, beautiful _adopted_ children. How terrible it must be to be so beautiful and _so_ barren. Yes, human curiosity was a cruel thing too.

So she fully understood Renee's weighted "Oh?" that contained both pity and unquenchable curiosity, underneath a thinly stretched skin of propriety.

"Edward was the first child we adopted," she said, "Carlisle treated him in the hospital and, having lost both of his parents, took pity on him. He was so terribly dark and angry – I cannot describe it. Yet Bella has made him so much happier Renee, it makes my heart sing to see it. He smiles all the time when all he ever did was scowl."

From somewhere in the house, she heard her husband's silently sweet intake of breath as she bared her soul to this woman. She hoped he would not be offended by her withholding such honesty from him but she couldn't help herself. It was a case of one mother to another, sharing the same bitter-sweet envy at their children outgrowing them.

Renee looked at her strangely then smiled, silently permitting her to continue.

"I love all of my children fiercely," she whispered, "And they are everything to me but Edward, he is more than I can convey in words. You must understand what I mean."

She desperately hoped the Renee did.

"Yes," Renee traced her finger around the rim of the fine china, "Yes I do. I adore Bella and Bella loves him a lot."

"I lost a child just before Edward," she continued, more to cleanse her tongue of the recollection than to share it with anyone else, "And I've never been able to have another. Edward made all of that better."

Her husband's sad groan was more audible than his reaction previously and while Renee did not hear it, she was perceptive enough to feel the shift in atmosphere. Carlisle had given up the pretence of writing entirely, even though she knew he would feel guilty for it, and was listening to his wife's sadness with pained attention. It felt good to tell him this through the medium of someone else.

"That's so sad," the other woman whispered, "I didn't know that."

"Very few people do," she sighed, sitting back, her hand curving imperceptibly over her stomach that remained soft after nearly a century, "And to see him grow into this happy young man makes me feel so confused. I want his happiness desperately but I...feel like I am losing him too."

She shook her head, "How morose. Please forgive me."

"No," Renee shook her head, her eyes shining with un-shed tears and honesty, "I am so glad you've said that. Phil just doesn't understand how stupid it makes you feel."

Esme laughed then, a genuinely deep laugh, "I think my husband does. You see none of them really belonged to us. So we do not really have any right to covet them. Perhaps that is what makes it feel even worse."

"They'll be ok," her guest smiled, " I need to believe that."

"Don't we all."

There was a gently pause, then Renee spoke;

"Do you have your dress?"

The conversation had come to its natural conclusion but to finally have given words to her feeling was a catharsis she could not truly have appreciated until after it happened. She was losing her Edward, her son, and she had been so frightened of it.

Happy for him, yes, but frightened too.

He had been an inherent part of her life, this life, from the moment and hour she had awoken from the fire of transformation. It had been Edward, not Carlisle, who had first allowed her to feed by bringing the hot body of a doe to the cellar in which she had been locked for her own safety. He had been her companion in those first lonely months of hunger and desperation. Then suddenly, he had grown to be her son. She had been so consumed by her own transformation that when she suddenly realised this 17 year old needed a mother, she had been furious with herself for not seeing what she could be to him. She had punished herself by being even more attentive to everything he needed and, most of the time, it was just the reassurance that he was loved and someone to tell him that this was all for something. He needed someone to touch his cheek and tell him how much he was wanted.

And oh how she loved him.

"I have," Esme smiled, "Though my daughter Alice says it is too old for me. I have old-fashioned tastes."

Carlisle's laughter rang through the house then and she realised he was nearer.

"Would you like to meet your daughter's future father in law?" She asked as her husband came onto the terrace, "He is evidently distracted from his work."

Renee smiled and nodded.

His had, gripping hard on her shoulder, was all that she needed to know he understood fully.

000000

In her marriage to Carlisle she had learned intimately about the concept of alternatives. The alternatives that presented themselves in every facet of life. Alternatives to natural motherhood in the coven she called her children, the other offers presented by this immortality, the alternatives to human behaviour. Alternatives were everything in their lives.

She had come to understand the alternatives to sating all types of appetites; physical or emotional.

Her husband made love to her as if he were praying, sating an appetite that would most likely never be diminished. At times it was almost too much to bear in all its glory and reverence. It had been borne from his shyness and her fear at first but now it was serene in its passion and worship. Even when it was quick and dark and feral it never lost its reverence.

Watching the crashing bolts of lightening and the grumble of thunder, he lay with his head on her pale abdomen as the storm wrecked the sky, both of them attempting to calm their breathing. He had run home from work during his rest period. He required no rest anyway but he slipped into the rest room and pretended he was asleep to allay the already vociferous suspicions. He had not done this in the longest time, so to feel him crawl in beside her as she was in her half-dream had been a pleasant surprise. To feel his hands on her was even more so. He had not uttered a word, the only noise throughout had been the groan of his release and the depth of his breathing, mingling with the gasps of her pleasure.

"What a pleasant surprise Doctor Cullen," she finally whispered, "Though I was under the impression that you were rather busy at the hospital."

"They make me rest," he muttered, trailing his fingers across her ribs, "It is a frightful waste of time."

"We have to keep up the pretence,"she laughed and she loved his smile when he heard her laugh so freely.

"I could not stop thinking about you Esme," he said, the entire timbre of his voice changing, altering the tone of their union with it, "I was operating and I could not concentrate as well as I normally do. It made me uneasy."

She misunderstood him and felt a blush that could never show on her skin gathering in her chest.

"Not like that," he said softly, gentle reassurance lacing his voice as he caught her look of shame, "No, darling. Though I am not above such thoughts I assure you. No, I could not stop thinking about your conversation with Renee."

"Carlisle," she threaded her fingers through his hair soothingly, "You are not angry that I did not share my sadness with you?"

"No my darling, only sad that you feel so bereft," he answered after a beat.

She loved him then, so deeply. Carlisle felt others pain like no other she had ever known, human or otherwise. He couldn't bear to see those he didn't know in pain, so she could only imagine what it must feel like to see those he loved hurt or aching. His compassion came from his desperate desire to make all around him happy and at peace. Really, he had chosen a motley crew of ruined humans if that had been his goal. It was unattainable and she secretly though that, perhaps, that was why he had chosen them.

"You are so naturally maternal," he whispered, rolling onto his back, "That I forget it must come with a painful side. You are so very good at being their mother that we are all inclined to forget you give a lot of yourself to it also."

She nodded in agreement with his assessment and felt her throat tighten at his words, "It seems so very much like the death of something."

He laughed at the irony and she joined in, despite the fact that is seemed a little callous. They laughed in the face of something they desired very much but never attained. Death was alien to them, so to feel its presence was disconcerting.

"It is not death Esme," he whispered and she noted that he checked his watch as he did so, "It is the beginning of a new life and the welcoming of a new daughter."

His rest should be over soon and how terrible it would feel to have his warmth leave her. She bit her tongue against the protestation that rose in her throat because it was incredibly unfair of her to expect any less of him. Carlisle thrived when he helped others and they had eternity before them; those humans had nothing in comparison.

"You are a wonderful mother," he whispered softly, reaching for the pants that he had left rumpled at the foot of their bed, "You must know."

She couldn't answer as he pressed his cool lips to her head.

She hadn't realised, when welcoming her sons and daughters into her heart as much as she would have with any child she had made, it would hurt just as badly when she had to watch them go.

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_Thank you for reading. Please leave a review because I'd be interested to hear your critique of my character interpretation. Thank you. _


	2. Infinitely More than Nothing

Thank you for reading this story. I do enjoy reviews - they help me improve - so I would be eternally grateful.

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**1921**

He tried in vain to ignore the howling screams and the shattering of the bricks as his new ward tore the cellar of his home to shreds. He wanted so desperately to shut out the noise because he believed it might help him shut out the guilt that was coursing through him, entwined with his venom and her blood – a vile suspension.

If he could have punished himself, whipped his back until the skin peeled from him softly and tenderly, he would have done so. Instead he stayed exactly where he was,pressed to the floor and curled up under his desk with his hands pressed to his ears. It did not help because his hearing was too acute but it was a throw over from his human years when noises had frightened him to the point of petrification.

He doubted sincerely if flagellation would grant his mind the peace he desired. He would have to have flailed himself to death in order to escape this guilt. He deserved the burning horror of his perfidy against God in all its glory.

He had created a barren monster. He had made something holy, utterly and entirely, unholy in his own selfishness.

The woman in the cellar below continued to rage on but as the night turned into day her rage became less dramatic, more futile, as she realised that the only way to sate it was to give into the burning at the back of her throat and devour the doe that Edward stood patiently by. At least then, it might hurt less, he imagined she thought.

And to accept the hand that he had dealt her, in all her anger and fury. Because it was his hand that had stilled her forever, frozen her in a hellish eternity. A mother with no one to mother.

He knew his son was furious at him for bringing her here, for transforming her into something so beastly. Yet he was waiting in the cellar with her anyway, proving to Carlisle that for the first time ever, he was the better man. He was furious at Carlisle for telling her the truth too. Edward, like Carlisle, had very quickly grown to care for her and he was angry at him for sending her into this spiral of agony.

"You shouldn't have told her!" He had raged, barring the cellar doors as she had cried her agony into the world around them,"She did not need to know."

Carlisle had hung his head in shame and said nothing, for what could he say?

Carlisle could not bear to face what he had done to her. He thought of his lips on her neck and the delicious taste of her blood and wanted to hurt himself until he felt nothing but the blinding pain she was feeling now. At least then, he might be able to reach her.

He loathed the fact that he had kept her in the cellar, like a dog, yet he relished in it as well. He too had experienced the horror of transformation in a dank cellar, his only company festering vegetables and his own insanity. Finally, someone else was with him in his loneliness. Finally someone he had wanted, whose blood hand sung to him, had felt what he had felt. How he despised himself for what he had done to her.

Yesterday morning he had brought her from the cellar to the room he had prepared for her. Her transformation had been satisfyingly mundane. No resistance had come from this beautiful new born, even although they had been grimly prepared for it. She had been very willing, pliant, so ready to shake the mortality that had punished her fully.

His pragmatism had been absolute; ladies toiletries, a fresh set of linens, pretty dresses from the shop in town. He had fantasised about her happiness so much over the last 3 days that he could only be pleased when she had smiled at his kindness. He had fantasised, much as a rogue would, over the last decade about the girl who had fallen from the tree. Now she had fallen into his world.

Then he reminded himself; _you pushed her._

He attempted to make up for what he had done but his largess went unrecognised. She was almost catatonic in her acceptance of it all, grateful for what she perceived as his kindness and for a moment he felt towed along by the wave of her acceptance. Esme was_ pleased_ to be his creation and it filled him with excitement, with hope. She had listened listlessly, simply staring at him and nodding and reacting in all the ways she thought appropriate, until the conversation had turned to children.

_Frozen in time. _

He hated himself for those words. So clinical, delivered in the tone of a clinician, with the mouth of the detached. He, foolishly, had thought it would not matter to her.

Her body had been soft in the morgue. Full and pliant. Yet all he had noticed was the hum and thrum of her failing heart as it struggled to maintain the vast responsibility it had, the enticing smell of her skin, the aria of her blood, the glitter of her beauty in the dank and cold room. He had bitten her twice; once for the soliciting of venom, the second time for his own pleasure. How he detested himself for it. The delicious scent of her blood, even more appealing after a decade of agony and beauty, had been too pleasurable to resist that second time. Only after that, as he had swiped her blood away from his mouth and fought with ferocity to resist her once more, when he carried her to his home, did he notice the softness of her body and the signs of recent pregnancy.

How he despised himself for not realising. How he was disgusted within himself for finding it attractive. He had prayed and prayed for a way out of the darkness, out of the lust which filled him, yet there was no relief.

For the first time in his entire existence he questioned God's commitment to him. And far worse than this, he questioned his commitment to God.

He had not been able to share his realisation with Edward out of sheer shame yet his son knew she had been with child without running his hands over her hips or holding her pressed to him. Edward would have viewed is at it flashed through her conscience, uncontrollable as she transformed; the softness of an infant pressed to her bosom, the sudden realisation his breathing was not quite right, that his tiny little lips were quickly varying the cerulean shades of oxygen deprivation. The infinite realisation that he was not going to see through the third night of his life while his face greyed and his body felt limp in her helpless, flightless arms. Carlisle would have thrown himself from a cliff too at the death of the only thing worth living for. Mercy was a cruel master.

And so was the memory. She remembered everything when she looked past him and saw what her infinite eternity would deprive her of.

The cry which had elicited from her lips at his words had been worse than that of a wounded bird of prey, more frightening than he could bless with a description. _Frozen in time_. _No viable chance of a child for our kind_. She had gone wild then, tearing the room to pieces as she tried to sob tears that would not come, leaving her furious for the catharsis which would never show itself. Her fury, her rage, had been absolute. He had held her to his chest while Edward barred the door but she had screamed at him to let her go and her words, venomous and enraged, had wounded him.

He had no right to be wounded. He had wounded her beyond all recognition.

He had pulled and dragged her to the cellar with all the might he possessed and, like a coward, ordered Edward to watch her. His son had obliged, even through his rage had clouded his eyes with a blackness that had not been there since he was newborn. He always obeyed his creator.

Carlisle had fled to his office, curled under his desk, his teeth piercing the skin of his knuckles as he listened to the cries he had so wilfully orchestrated,trying so desperately to keep his own screams of terror at bay. He had created an agonised monster, all because of his sinful desire.

She had thrashed into the night and then when morning had come she had quieted herself to a soft, graceful wail. This noise was so much worse than the screaming. It was the weeping of the agonised. Tears were absent, so there would be a dry burning in her eyes that felt like sand and the parch of her tongue would compete with the pain in her soul and at the back of her larynx. He wanted to choke her, to take away her agony, to comfort her, to silence her. To never have created her. He wanted to own her.

He had crawled from under the desk at dawn, her wailing intermittent now. His sin spread out from him, filling the room with a blackness he could almost touch. In a fit of rage and shame he swept everything from his desk. Intricate and delicate models flew across the room, bouncing off of walls and embedding themselves in the wooded floor. His letter opener – a gilt handled confection from Aro - sailed across the room and stuck in the far away wall.

"You need to speak to her," Edward burst into the room, "I cannot do it any more Carlise!"

He was dishevelled, his collar lay open and he clutched his head in his hands, as if trying to block out the noise of all that he could hear. He was frantic with rage and his eyes danced the waltz of the unhinged as they darted around the room. His eyes were black as pitch too and his mouth was set in an aching grimace.

"I cannot listen to her any more," Edward screamed, "I cannot listen to you!"

Carlisle had not uttered a word for the last 24 hours but he knew precisely what his son meant. _I cannot listen to your mind any more. It's exhausting me._

"Go and hunt," he said simply, refusing to meet the boy's eyes.

Edward offered no consolation and that was the most desolate of realities. Instead he growled at his father and turning, threw open the sash, jumped out of the window and landed gracefully. He could not bear, Carlisle realised, to be in the house one moment longer. He could not bear to be around Carlisle.

Like a frightened child, Carlisle avoided the reality of what he must do once Edward had departed. He took time, accompanied by the soft music of her wailing, to lift each and every single scattered object from the floor and return it to its place on the desk. It was a futile task in all honesty; once something was shattered, it was nigh on impossible to mend it. He took time to ready himself at the wash stand in his lonely bedroom, never daring to gaze upon his own face for fear of what he would see in the monster there. He changed, though there was really no need, from the shirt and pants he'd been wearing from his shift the day before.

The task he most extended though was the actual journey to the cellar. He crept, like a vicious and half-hearted criminal, into the darkness and damp. He slid the dead-bolt open with a reverence that was unbearably false. He paused at the door as if he was waiting to be invited even though he knew an invitation would not come.

She was pitiful. That was the first word that filled his mind when he saw her.

She was curled on a rotting queen anne chair, sitting under the only natural light from a small window at the far end of the cellar. She looked tiny in the chair, her chin jutting out as it rested on her knees. Her eyes were wide with desperation, frighteningly glassy. She did not acknowledge his presence.

"Esme."

His voice was weak, croaking under the weight of his sin. It was not a question but a silent plea for forgiveness.

She looked towards him then and, quite simply, and entirely powerfully, turned her face away.

He wanted to die at that very moment.

"He was so tiny," she whispered, though the whisper carried across the tense air like a song – splitting his world in two.

He could never feel the agony that she was experiencing now. In fact, he would never feel it and for that he was selfishly grateful.

Carlisle had never planned ahead of himself in his human life. It was not de rigueur to make plans when disease struck you down at one swipe of the scythe. One did not plan when unpredictability and fear were preached from the pulpit, sometimes from his very own mouth. but as a young man in his time he had expected, as every other young man did, that he would one day marry. His father would have organised it. Not a love match of course, because in his time frame that was an alien concept. His wife would have been the daughter of one of his father's acquaintances. She would have been young, most likely indecently so by modern standards, and would have borne him a great deal of children and respect. He would have had a wealth of obedient, flaxen haired children who worked the land and praised their Lord, just as their father taught them. However he had never once flexed his fingers to grasp that possibility.

Esme had. She had grasped it in two hands, birthed it in an agony of excitement and hope and yet been left with nothing. She had been left with infinitely less than nothing.

"I did not realise," he answered, and he was at least grateful he could be honest, "I am so utterly and truly sorry."

"Yes," she said dimly, "Yes I know. I know you are. It's just -"

The noise again – like a wounded animal – escaped from her throat and rushed into the silence between them. She seemed to want to swallow it as she pulled at her throat and scratched the skin there. Her sharp nails raked across the skin at her gullet and just to the left, reopening the crescent wounds that he had branded her with a few nights before. It glistened in the dim light as venom pooled in the wound and she let out a little cry of pain. No blood but glittering, tangy venom.

It was an instinct of his nature to rush to someone in pain and to desperately try to assist them. The irony of it all was that he had been the very source of the agony in which she found herself; both physical and emotionally.

"May I?"

She did not shirk away but she did jerk her head to the side, so that while she was allowing access to her neck she did not have to look at his face. The wound was incredibly clean, because Carlisle was an impeccable operator, and he examined it for a moment. Neat, perfect. Years from now, unlike his own messy scars which he still hid self-consciously behind scarves, it would be a slither of silvery skin against the solidly white perfection of her immortal skin.

"It hurts so badly."

He could not possibly know to which agony she was referring. He pictured himself healing all of her wounds – physical yes, but emotional too. He pictured her pains as he washed them away from her, helping her reclaim peace as her own.

Then, knowing that it would either alarm her or seem like the most bizarre thing, he dipped his lips to move across the reopened wound. Her little gasp evidenced her relief as the bites healed under his mouth. There were the most wonderful, vile anomalies in their breed. One of them was the healing power of another vampires venom if it was administered appropriately.

She said nothing as he moved away from her, watching the dust motes dance in the light from the tiny window.

"It is light outside," he said softly, "It is morning."

She dipped her head, her matted hair falling over her face in chunks. Rich caramel tresses were locked in the jelly viscosity of congealed blood but nonetheless it glittered in the dim light. She had lost all pretences as she sat before him; raw, bare and in the most beautiful pain he had ever witnessed.

"It does not feel like morning," she said, as if the effort to say it expended all her energy, "It feels like the depths of midnight."

He wrung his hands together, rocking back and forth on his heels. He did not wish to invade her space so he simply waited.

"I know you will never be able to forgive me but I -"

She shrugged, "There is nothing to forgive. I like to think, had I been playing God, I would have done it for you Dr Cullen."

The accusation stung, the archetypal doctor trope seeming incredibly unfair in that moment but entirely reasonable at the same time too. Then he realised it was the only weapon she had at her disposal; the ability to accuse him of playing God would, she had probably calculated, sting him.

It did. And he deserved the brutality of her anger wholeheartedly.

"I was not -"

"I know," she interrupted, her voice sore, "I am very sorry. I simply..."

He saw her then, properly, and pity filled him to the very edges. He had robbed her, a quiet thief stealing the one thing he wanted, and in the process taking everything from her.

"It is I who should be begging your forgiveness," he said, "You were just so..."

He wanted to say 'beautiful' but he bit the word back for a variety of reasons. She would not want to hear that her aesthetic appeal was the reason he had cursed her and while he did not mean it in this most basic sense, it still seemed like a shallow thing to say.

But she had been so beautiful. From the twisted set of her spine to the livid bruised blooming arcoss her cold body, she had been so beautiful. At sixteen, shy and embarrassed, she had been beautiful too. Her soul had been so beautiful that he had struggled to resist the pull of her blood.

"You were so full of life, all that time ago," he admitted finally, "I could not bear to watch you die. Had I known your reasons as you lay there, perhaps I would have surrendered you to your fate but I did not."

He was lying through his horrifically sharp teeth – he had not known the reasons, and perhaps if he had his conscience would have fiercely battled but, in the end, his desire to see life breathed into her body again would ultimately have won. He was a charlatan.

"How could you have known," she shook her head, refusing still to look at him, "Who could have known? I do not expect you know how it feels to be bitterly broken. I had him and then he was taken from me." She turned to him, her eyes ablaze, "You told me I would not remember when I woke up at first. And at first I did not but," she pressed her hands to her head, "It's all still here. It will not go away. I can still feel it!"

He could not respond to that. From an entirely analytical standpoint he had been shocked at the vividness of her memories and, by virtue of that, the pain that she had carried with her from her human life. Edward had warned him after she had only been transforming for a few hours.

"She has really vivid memories Carlisle," Edward had warned lowly as they both stood by the fire, watching in awe as her hair filled out from the hair of one who was malnourished to the rich, caramel thickness which crowned her now.

"Of what?"

Edward had grimaced with distaste, "I'd rather not say."

Always the gentleman, Carlisle had thought with foreboding. He already knew what those vivid memories were but he refused to entertain the possibility that they may hurt her more.

While he had known she could feel it, it was something he could not comprehend on a personal level. All his feelings from his life before had been erased to be replaced by intense loneliness over the last 2 centuries. The only understanding of his human life which he possessed was an entirely historical one that had come about as a result of his research. There was not true feeling tying him to his life before.

He suddenly understood her fury; she did not want to be reminded of what had gone before and had been enraged that she had found herself remembering it as vividly as Edward could see it.

He said the only thing that came to him then, "How old was he?"

She slid gracefully onto the stone floor and he moved to sit beside her. They were by no means near each other but she was not going to attack him either – he could assume that much from the set of her shoulders.

"Only 3 days," she dipped her head and concentrated on fiddling with the frayed end of the grimy, long night gown which she wore, "He was perfect. To have had something so wonderful and then, to have lost it..."

There was no way in which one could satisfyingly finish a sentence such as that, so she let him fill the rest of it for her. He realised quite suddenly that he did not possess the mental, or emotional, vocabulary to do so.

"I'm not angry at you for what you have made me," her lips curled in a sad smile, "But for what I cannot have in this life. I thought I had a second chance, not only at life - and to you I was grateful - but for motherhood as well. There is not even the slimmest hope?"

He shook his head mutely and this time, when he reconfirmed for her what she already knew, there was an odd acceptance in her eyes.

"I was going to be a very good mother," she said, almost as if she were entirely detached from the whole situation, "For the first time in my life I felt I would finally be enough for someone."

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

"I would have been very good," she repeated, standing up.

She seemed to gather all her strength, picked up from where it had fragmented around her. Her back straightened slowly and she turned to face him. For the first time he noticed the livid scarlet of her eyes.

"I do not want you to hate me," he said suddenly, " I will never forgive myself."

"I have tried so hard to hate you but I simply cannot," she whispered, "You've haunted me for a decade."

She smiled then, sadness twisting her smile into something that he could not grasp. He had blessed her with something infinitely more than nothing – he had blessed her with knowledge of what she could never have.

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Thank you for reading - please review.


	3. Sacrifice

I have enjoyed writing this and I love reviews to help me improve. Please take a moment to read and review and favourite if the notion takes you. None of this belongs to me.

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**2006**

"_Look at my mother, look at my sister. It's not as easy a sacrifice as you imagine..." Edward in __**Breaking Dawn,**__ Stephanie Meyer_

Rarely, if ever, had Esme felt such utter rage. She could recall only one time fully and it had been brought around by her discovery that she would never bear a child again. She had screamed her ire at him, fought him as if in battle and then given into the idea entirely. What right had she had to get angry at such a fate when she had thrown her life carelessly over the edge of a cliff? She had little right, if any, at all.

In this eternity, filled with beauty and love, she had always personally held the belief that her inability to bear him a child was her punishment for her human decision. He used to cringe when she said it but she was always honest in her assessment. She didn't deserve anything other than to be barren and the relief of that fact, while cold, acted as a comfort.

The pain of this loss, this deprivation, had mutated over the course of the last century. It had transformed itself into a completely different feeling that lingered on the periphery of her soul like a ghost. She had been given other things in its place, allowing it to become diluted and changed. Her family, their children, the blessing of a forever with her husband.

But it still ached dully in her belly. She would find her eyes lingering on little children in town, not because of her appetite for blood, but her appetite for motherhood. And it was, and always would be, an appetite. The inability to sate it would always remain with her, sewn to her shadow, and continuously test her ability to dismiss the very fact that she was starving with want.

She could not possibly keep her rage to the confines of her own body; it was seeping out from the tips of her fingers, pooling around her. With a purple hue, it clouded her ears and dimmed her senses. She needed to leave the house and those around her, because she could not possibly let it touch them. To allow this to happen would have been, in her eyes, catastrophic.

She muttered a controlled, colourless, "Excuse me please."

Then fled the room as quickly as she could without seeming rude or at all moved by the news that had just crashed over them all like a tidal wave. It had swept through them, leaving in its wake an unnatural silence.

She slammed the door behind her, snapping the hinges so far back that it broke, falling into the porch. The vampires in the floors above her suddenly paused in their considerations, realising that they had missed something. _Don't dare, Edward,_ she warned silently. _Don't dare._

She was warning him against so many things that she did not know where to start.

She did not run, for fear she would keep on running, but instead she walked at a human pace. She measured her steps into the tangle of the forest, allowing the smell of pine and evergreen to confuse her senses. She thought she might hunt – an alternative, and altogether far politer way to channel her anger – but then thought better of it. Instead she clambered through the forest, thrashing her way through brambles and low hanging branches. On a whim she jumped onto the bark of a massive oak tree and began, faintly aware of the birds within its branches scattering as a predator entered their home, to climb.

When she reached one of the uppermost branches, a few feet above the canopy of the trees in general, she realised she was entirely alone. The pretty slacks she had been wearing were shredded in different places, the soft oatmeal a dirty brown now, and she was momentarily disappointed with herself for such silliness – a woman of her age climbing trees was childish. Then again, when it was so easy, it was difficult not to. And when she was angry, she wanted to leave the entire world behind.

If her emotions had been contained up until this point, they flowed freely from her now. She had learned that the human catharsis of weeping was not an action afforded to immortals but the sting of venom in the corners of her eyes and the shuddering, dry sobs that heaved against her ribs told another story. She felt the tears there, however dry they were, and let them come in soft whimpers which cloaked her heart in longing. She longed so badly for the thing granted to Bella – to feel the soft, relentless growth of life inside you.

And the desire that her husband and her son had to deprive the young woman of that very sensation had left her cold.

She shuddered as the thought occurred to her in stages, each time like a shattering blow as it coloured her vision of her husband. As a clinician she expected him to make the surgical decisions that benefited his patient, but as her husband she expected him to make the right ones from his morally sound high ground. He was blurring those previously clear boundaries and it left her unsettled.

She had never once suspected that Carlisle would agree to abortion.

Despite his incredibly faithful values, Esme did not view it as a matter of faith or religion or indeed a moral affront to his personal beliefs. She left those ponderings to Carlisle because he was far more attuned to faith than she was. No, her anger came from a far more personal place that rested deep within her gut. She wanted him to want it for Bella as badly as he wanted it for her. She wanted him to see what it felt to be a mother – to feel something other than blood lust grow within you.

She resented his lack of understanding and she resented what it meant for them now.

"I asked you once never to climb trees again...you obviously did not listen."

He was beside her on the branch suddenly, his legs swinging over the edge as he landed neatly – having jumped from the other tree below. His voice had been low and soft and deliberately soothing. In that moment, despite how she really wanted to feel, she hated him for his kindness.

"I am angry with you," she said bluntly, not even considering what she should or should not say, instead saying the first thing that jostled its way into her mouth from her confused mind. It was hardly eloquent but it suited its purpose and yet she was not proud of the reaction she gained.

His face crumpled delicately, like the scrunching of fine parchment, and pain flashed across his brow. When he frowned like this, which was rare, creases appeared around his eyes and it gave him the illusion of being physically older than he was or ever would be. It irritated her that she found this attractive because it only ever happened when they disagreed and it meant she could never share this with him. He looked so entirely hurt at her words that she immediately wanted to swallow them back but she had already made her choice to carry forward this almighty difference in opinion and there was no opportunity to retrieve words once they had been uttered.

He steepled his fingers across his lips, as was his habit when considering a problem or proposition, and opened his mouth a few times to speak. Each time words seemed to fail him and instead he went back to his thinking, each time looking a little more dejected than the last.

She was willing to give him all the time in the world to form his argument because she wanted so desperately for him to convince her, to_ persuade _her, that it was the right thing to do. If anyone could, it was Carlisle who could bring an immoral purpose and cruel reality together and make them seem like the attractive option, such was his conviction. She wanted him to convince her so she could find peace in their decision – so she could pick out the needle of reason from the haystack of cruelty that seemed to surround their determination to have Bella 'get rid of it'.

"Forgive me," he finally said, and the very utterance of the words carried the tone of a plea, "For assuming I know why you feel this way. Permit me, please, to explain it to you."

"I know it's medically dangerous," she said quickly, not wanting to look the fool through ignorance. She understood fully why, when an ultrasound could not see the baby within Bella, her husband was concerned. She understood the danger of an unknown entity growing within the girl – as much as it could be understood – but it did not stop her from understanding the love of a mother too.

She wanted to look foolish because of the true reason for her anger; her compassion for Bella's cause. As someone who had had the opportunity now dancing before Bella cruelly ripped from her arms, she knew how it felt acutely. Her mind wandered to Rosalie and it pained her so much to think of her daughter that she had to tear her psyche away from the thought. If she was finding this difficult, Rose would be nigh on crippled by it.

"Yes, I know but I -"

"You see," she cut across him quietly and she could see he stalled, still and solid, at the tone in her voice, "You do not know. That is where the problem lies."

"I am trying very hard to understand Esme," he said imploringly, rubbing his hand across his brow, looking suddenly very tired.

She felt tremendously guilty for a moment as she saw the confusion and utter tragedy that turned the corned of his mouth down in a grimace. Then she remembered what she had wanted to say,what she needed to vocalise.

"Bella should't be punished for her abilty to carry a child and if she chooses to do so, then who are you and Edward to-"

"If it was you I would rip it from you with my bare hands," he said softly.

The tone in which he chose to deliver those frankly horrific sentiments caught her off guard and, if she had been less astute in her bearing, she would have tumbled from the branch at his words. They were soft and fluid, whispering across the space between them. The tone did not suit the sentiment. She could not hide the disgust in her voice;

"That's...there are no words for how awful that is Carlisle," she said.

"Awful, perhaps. True, entirely," he said, not losing his calm though she could see he wanted to.

He was flexing the fingers of his right hand – the habit he indulged in when he grew agitated. He had originally had a pair of prayer beads within his agitated fingers through the centuries but he had shed them as the years ploughed on. All he had left now was the habit.

"I would not lose you," he said darkly, "Whatever the cost. Even for a child of my own."

She did not have to witness the truth on his face to know the honesty in his words. They hurt more than he could imagine though. Sometimes they spoke about it, skirting around fantasies that could never come true for them. They kept their fantasies to a whisper, pressed between bedsheets and hidden behind the doors of his library. They never raised their voice when they shared the desire that never changed – to have a child – because to give it noise was to make it real. Instead they lingered over it only on occasion because they knew they were blessed. At least they knew that.

"But," she said, voicing what had already silently passed between them, "You could have a child of your own. We know that now. You _could_ have a child."

He looked at her then, unblinking, and said; "I hoped you would not choose to say that. I knew you would consider it, even ruminate over it, but I never thought you would commit to it."

She felt chocked at his disapproval. The terrible fact was that she had irreversibly stung him yet the words poured forth from her, flowing from her mouth unchecked.

"You could have a child," she said softly, "Something you've always wanted. You could have that. And I cannot, no matter what I do. This is my punishment Carlisle, coming to fruition. This is my punishment..."

"No," he shook his head, his voice firm, "It is not a punishment, how dreadful of you to say such a thing. You have misinterpreted my desire for years then, for the decades we have been together."

He stared out into the sky and she knew he was avoiding her face. She loathed how calm he was when she seemed like the displaced one, the one on the verge of fury. He spoke softly, the same tone which comforted her and loved her and worshipped her and chastised her and, on occasion, disagreed with her. He was so constant that, at times, she grew angry with him for it yet it was the reason why she adored him so fully too.

"I desire a child for _you_. I wish so very much Esme, that I could give _you_ a child. You. No one else," he shook his head and his soft, pitiful tone never wavered, "Do you think I would wish to do to any human what Edward has done to Isabella? For years I have wanted a child with you, and only you. I could tell you how hurtful your words are, Esme, but I do not resent you them. Besides, I know you already know how hurtful your suggestion is. I would not want another woman, or a child, with anyone else."

At this he reached for her hand, slipping his fingers between hers, "I would want nothing if I could not have you...and your understanding."

She suddenly realised that this crisis was not hers to monopolise. Her husband was at the very centre of it; the soul of the family was being tested to his limit and being forced to make decisions entirely outside of his character. She had been ignorant in her jealousy.

"I assured him that there would be no adverse consequences, if only he was careful. That it would not happen. I have damned Isabella, I have damned what could be a child within her womb but," he let out a sigh of breath so pained that she felt his agony was tangible, "But worse than all I have damned my son, Esme. I have damned our son."

"No, no," she soothed but he would not listen in his panic, "No. It will..."

"And now you, you think I am a monster Esme," he said, his voice wavering, "And Rosalie is furious and Bella thinks I am some sort of masochist. I have cursed them. God has to forgive me, because how can my family?"

The final threads of her anger melted, instead pity was woven inside her, twisted with indescribable love.

"Oh Carlisle," she pulled him nearer, guiding his head to rest under her chin, "Carlisle no. It is not true."

"She will perish and he will despise me; if I save her, she will hate me and and you will think me cruel," dry sobs retched his throat, "How can I ever look you in the eye if I agree with him? How can my son ever forgive me if she dies?"

Much like her, his sorrow flowed freely from him now. High above the canopy he could finally shed the horror of the last few days.

"Carlisle," she said, and it had the air of a command, "Look at me."

She lifted his chin with her fingers, forcing him to look at her, "You are the most decent, honourable man I have ever known. Believe me when I say my anger comes from elsewhere, a place which has nothing to do with you...not really. Not if I examine myself closely. It is simply easier to be angry at you. My logic tells me that what is within Bella is dangerous for all of us, and for her. The mother in me. The mother in me-"

She was bested by her own feelings and could not continue, simply pressing a kiss to his forehead as venom stung her eyes.

"Carlisle," she pleaded, "Please forgive me. My body remembers and my soul...my soul feels it too. I want to forget it but I cannot."

"I know that," he shook his head, "I see it when you glance at her. You have every reason to feel that way. You are so loving and I see it in you."

"I am jealous Carlisle," she whispered, cutting across him as he poised to give her more platitudes, "I am jealous of a human child who carries something which is killing her. Such is the extent of my desire. How terrible that feels – to want something so dreadful. I despise myself for such jealousy."

He touched her face then, tracing his fingers across her brow and down onto her cheekbones. His touch soothed her, calming her jealousy. She knew fully that he was speaking the truth – as he always did – and it comforted her in a way she could not describe.

"You cannot hate yourself for wanting something," he whispered, "If we all did that, we would be incredibly unhappy."

She felt embarrassed by his understanding. She thought it might have felt better for him to be angered by her jealousy, or disapproving, but his understanding shamed her. His compassion humiliated her.

"It goes against everything in me to ask her to rid herself of her...child. However, It is so unknown that I cannot see an alternative. She will die before he has a moment to change her. I will not have that on my conscience. I know it is dripping with irony but I will not be Bella's murderer," he growled, "And neither will the thing Edward has put inside of her."

She witnessed his disgust then, etched on the fine contours of his face, and realised his conflict was a product of something else too.

"It disgusts me," he said quietly, as if sharing a terrible secret with her and, in a way, this was very much the case, "I knew we were awful and I knew our potential for evil but this, this is – it is unprecedented in its horror."

Carlisle had come to terms with what they were, and in spite of the apostasy of those around him, had retained a faith and morality in this life that was difficult for most. He had made peace with his existence, battling every day to renounce the natural ways of their breed and find alternatives to their in-built urges. She witnessed now though, as on those rare occasions where he struggled, just how vile he found his own condition. It was contrary to everything he loved.

"If we make a child this," he shook his head, motioning at his own body as if it were dangerous and incredulous, "We damn ourselves."

She understood him fully and while she could not refute his claim, she knew that there was a more powerful force at play here – and so did he. The force of free will.

"That is not your decision, it is not Edward's; it is not even mine," she whispered, "It is Isabella's. She is a mother and that, believe me, is more powerful than anything."

"I do believe you," he answered, his fingers flexing again, "And that is why this is terrible."

"Carlisle, they know I will struggle with this," she answered, "And for the first time in our marriage, I will not ask you to side with me and I will not side with you."

"So we are divided then," he muttered, taking her hand in his again.

She nodded and the groan in the back of his throat nearly broke her resolve.

"You will never know how it feels," she whispered, "There are only two of us who have come close. Rosalie wants to know how it feels and I – I have felt it. There is no greater urge than to be a mother and to protect what you have made – no matter how monstrous it is. Forgive me Carlisle but it is something you will never understand. I will not hate you, I will love you more for your conviction in fact, but it is a conviction I cannot share with you. For that, I beg your understanding."

He sighed his resignation, lifting her had to his lips and kissing the back. It was such a old-fashioned gesture which, under other circumstances, would have made her smile. This time, it made her grimace. She was forming, facilitating, willing a clear divide between them. The heart and soul of the family were pulling in separate directions.

000000

She rested her head on the bed post, tilting it to one side, as she let her book rest, unread, in her lap. He had left for his shift shortly after their conversation that day and she had watched him ready himself, donning the freshly laundered lab-coat she had prepared that morning, in perfect silence. He had kissed her softly, lingering longer than ordinarily, on the forehead and then left.

In some ways, she felt like he had left her.

Silently the door of their room fell open. Despite the free nature of their home, the general rule was to knock – particularly on bedroom doors. It was not because of fear of embarrassment but because it was polite and decent to knock as far as Esme was concerned. They teased her, at times, because of her old-fashioned values. So much so that they forgot to tease Carlisle who was, by dint of his very long tenure on earth, far more old-fashioned than she would ever be.

It made her smile to think of the gentle teasing of her children – so innocent, so content in comparison, before the days in which their family stood so very divided.

Rosalie, closing the double doors behind her, stood now at the foot of their bed. She was trailing her fingers along the wood, allowing them to travel over the elaborately carved flowers and birds that Esme had designed herself.

"Good evening Rose," she smiled, attempting to ensure it was not forced.

Rosalie was cleverer than that.

"I miss a lot," she said softly, her voice carrying over the space between them, as she ignored Esme's pleasantry, "I miss the sun and the feeling of heat and the possibilities. I miss crying Esme, I really do."

She smiled in shared loss and motioned her second child – the difficult, mercurial middle one – over with her hand. Rosalie sat down on the edge.

"I wish I could cry."

"I know darling," she touched the girl's cheek as she breathed in, her little staccato of air betraying her desire to cry.

"Come and sit beside me," she shifted over elegantly, with little noise, as Rose lay down, "I know how you hate the werewolf."

Rosalie smiled half-heartedly at her attempt to lighten the situation. Rosalie knew though that Esme rather liked Jacob so it seemed contrived in its humour.

Instead of sitting beside her she placed her head in Esme's lap and curled her hands under her adoptive mother's knees.

"Emmett won't even try to understand," she said at length, and Esme could feel the intensity of her sadness under the tips of her fingers as they stroke her blonde hair, " And they will not listen. I hate her but I will not stand by as they...it's a little baby."

Esme hated Rosalie's lexical choice -the grouping, her unnamed and accusatory 'they'. Perhaps if Rose had given them their names, it would have been better but as it stood, she made it sound like and us and them situation.

Esme thought for a moment then asked;

"Are you bitter Rosalie?"

Her daughter flinched at her words. Rosalie was mercurial, unpredictable and Esme was not sure how her line of questioning might affect her. At times she would willingly share and at others she was so angry with her life that she could not bare to look the others in the eye, never mind share her deepest feelings.

"I know I am," she continued calmly, "I know that I am jealous of Bella for this opportunity."

Rosalie stiffened under her hands for a moment, obviously shocked by her candid admission.

"You have always been so accepting," Rosalie finally answered vaguely.

"Because I must be," she whispered quietly, "Because I have so much to be grateful for."

"I hate her for her chance," Rosalie answered, "And I am not as...accepting as you, Esme."

"You are," she soothed, "You just vocalise your frustrations more."

"I show them more and I know it makes you angry. Carlisle too."

"Carlisle loves you," she answered, "You know that."

"They are both being monsters – and Alice and Jasper are not much better."

"They're not monsters," Esme defended, though her voice remained deliberately soothing, "They simply do not see it as we do. They see something killing Bella, very simply."

"I wish I had your ability to view situations from both sides," Rosalie muttered, "You are so..."

"So what?"

"So loving, so forgiving! I want you, just for a moment, to hate them like I do. Then I won't be on my own."

Esme understood her entirely and, if Rosalie had been facing her, she would have tried to hide the pitying smile that played upon her own lips. Instead she let it come freely.

"My husband and my son? Never," she whispered, "They are your brother and your father. Remember that. Nothing else matters more."

"The baby does," Rosalie spat defensively, "And you know that."

"We will protect Bella," Esme ignored her daughter's aggressive attempt at an argument, "That will be enough."

"And if it's not?"

Esme paused to squeeze her daughter's shoulder; "It will not come to that. Have faith."

"I am not Carlisle," Rosalie grumbled.

"Neither am I."

For a long while, over segments of the clock, they lay like that. Then the door opened again. This time it was Carlisle, bringing with him the dawn of a new day.

They had heard him coming home a while before and Rosalie had turned to share a significant look with her. She shook her head, hoping her daughter could at least trust her father not to do anything without Bella's explicit wishes. He may try to persuade her, and he would support Edward, but he would not do anything without her consent. Neither of them had moved then, instead listening to him as he checked on Bella's vitals. There was a tone of grief in his voice as he asked the routine questions he had no doubt asked countless patients that night. 'Your body cannot sustain this Bella,' he had repeated at the end. She did not respond to her father-in-law and then they heard his slow, thoughtful footsteps as he climbed the stairs.

Now he stood in the doorway. They could not, by definition, appear tired but his posture betrayed his mental exhaustion. He smiled weakly at them both.

"A moment with your mother please Rosalie?"

She had already moved anyway, and in her typical fashion, went to storm past him. He stalled her though with a hand on her shoulder and a gentle squeeze. He smiled but it was unreturned as she went from the room. His head dipped as Esme watched him gather his resolve around him like shattered pieces of glass. Then he looked up and smiled at her and she felt the warmth from him cover her. At this she could even ignore the tangy smell of blood which always followed him home from work.

He came towards her and perched on the edge of the bed. She touched his shoulder, his back, paused her hand and kept it there.

"Have I ever told you I once met Victor Hugo?"

"No," she answered, mesmerised as the sun glanced off of his skin, making the opacity of whiteness solid like marble and as beautiful as marble too. It was an odd tract of conversation but with Carlisle this was common, so she was not puzzled by it.

"It was in Paris, he was speaking about the socialist movement in the most undistinguished of public house. His faith in God was unparalleled..." he trailed off, "It was not what he said but the way in which he said it."

He shook his head, aware that he was not as loquacious as he typically was.

"It does not matter. Tonight I read his book once more – my shift was unusually quiet. I keep a copy in the bottom drawer of my desk you see. I read it entirely, even though I knew exactly what I wanted to read. Once I reached those lines I read them over and over again, even though I had previously committed them to memory."

He reached for her hand and she squeezed his to reassure him that her silence carried no confusion nor anger; instead that she was simply listening.

"In Les Miserables he writes" he went on; "In this world, which is so plainly the antechamber of another, the only true division of humanity is between those who live in light and those who live in darkness. Our aim must be to diminish the number of the latter and increase the number of the former."

He moved over her suddenly, kissing her lips, her nose, her eyes. There was worship in his actions as he did so. If she could have wept, she would have wept for love of him and his sacrifice.

"For a moment," he whispered emphatically, "For a moment I forgot that. I am with you. I will not, I will never, stand against you or my God."

* * *

Please R&R. Thank you.


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